Hash Trash #1188: Baltimore is for hashing and rich people

Note that this is not your usual, pretty, young scribe, this is being written by that one older guy, who shows up at the hash and you kinda know him but he’s sorta creepy, with that facial hair thing, and he’s always running behind you, and you hope it’s because he’s slow and not because he’s checking out your ass, (which he’s totally not, btw, unless you’re female, in which case he might have, but in a totally platonic, not lecherous way, at all) and he always seems awkward and shy but it’s totally cool because he likes running and beer and run-on sentences. And commas. And sentence fragments. And can totally be roped into doing the trash even though he was in the Navy and knows what that stands for: Never Again Volunteer Yourself.

Beer? Did someone say beer? Yeah, there wasn’t any. Not on trail anyway. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

First, there was a virgin who was nominated for ‘best virgin ever’ because he brought us a 12-pack of Natty Boh. (And wore a r*cist shirt; but we won’t speak of that.) Any Cock almost had a miscarriage and declared him the new messiah right there, but there was a sound like distant thunder (or many beer-bellies warming up; accounts vary) and he quickly repented lest he anger the lord Boh. But he did drool for a bit. Which might be normal. We tried not to stare. Or judge.

There was a new hash-cash taker and there was much confusion, as we all know that the taking of money and tendering change is rocket science, or at least airplane science, but I’m sure it was all sorted out and no-one was taken advantage of.

Things we were short of on this trail: Gratuitous picture-taking; beer; hashers; ankle-wraps; beer; crack whores; pink outfits; beer.

Things we were not short of: Ankle-turning rocks; Million-dollar homes; non-hashers on trail; hills.

So we were short a bunch of people. I guess most BAH3ers don’t actually like to go into Baltimore. It’s not as scary as it seems, people. I saw absolutely no-one taking drugs on trail. (Unless alcohol is a drug. Which it’s not. No reason to make new laws, congress.) There were only about 15 of us, so my usual m.o. of running behind a nice ass was foiled because only one female did the runner’s trail and she refused to run in front of me. I’m considering getting a stick, like Any Cock, and knee-capping some of the faster people. That wouldn’t be creepy, right?

I would tell you who showed up, but I don’t have the list and my memory is firing about as well as the spark plugs on your grandma’s Pinto. (Tell her I said ‘Hi’.) Well, I do remember the females: Our hare, Grand Mattress. (I can’t say anything about her here because Fossil’s bigger than me. But she’s nice.) And CP was there. And Stick it in My Socket. And Just Sharon. Oh, now that I think about it, there was Any Cock, and ECDC, and Regurgisex, and EMC, and the aforementioned virgin and a couple of almost virgins. And a transplant from Alabama, Dr. 5 Dollar Pooplong, a long-lost member of the $5 family. (My brother from another change purse.) And Just Mike and Sex Apnea and a couple of other people whose names escape me. (I’m new at this. Don’t judge me.) Oh, there was another girl, from Malaysia, who left half way through trail, who therefore never saw me in my kilt and never had a chance to see my junk. Her loss.

The trail started off badly because Grand Mattress told us there was no beer, only shots, on trail and then, to add insult to injury, pointed us uphill to start. Being out of breath 30 seconds into a hash is never a good sign. Fortunately, we almost immediately lost trail. The 5-minute breather was just what your scribe needed to recover from the 250 feet of uphill. Then the real trail started. And what a trail. If you ever need someone to break an ankle, just tell them to follow Mattress’ trail. Holy shit. Calling it ankle-turning is like saying Monty Python had some funny lines. On Monday, my ankles were twice as big as Sunday, which is either because they’re swollen or because I built a bunch of extra muscle. Either way: not sexy. I guess I could be pregnant. If so, I’m naming it Ankle Mattress. If it’s a girl, that should help her get dates in high school. Lord knows she isn’t gonna have her looks going for her.

Anyway, back to the trail. We went down-hill. Then lost trail. Then uphill. Then spent some time finding trail. Then down-hill again. Then some other traily things and then there was a shot check. Then we passed by some really, really nice homes. (Mattress said she asked one guy if she could lay trail through his yard and he said no way, if someone gets hurt they might sue him, but his neighbor, three doors down, was out of town and we could totally run through that guy’s yard. Baltimore: what our neighbors don’t know won’t hurt them.)

Then we went up again, then down, up, down, sideways, across, another shot check, straight, up, down, up, over, down, then we crossed a stream and saw some more nice houses and there were some nice doggies and a whole bunch of non-hashers on a really, really nice trail that you’d never think would be in the middle of Baltimore. Really. (This is where we lost the Malaysian chick. Evidently, she lives in one of the million-dollar homes. (Call me. I’m in the book.)) And then there were some hills, I think.

Eventually, we did make it back to the start. The new guy was FRB, I think; it was very confusing to those of us in the back of the pack. There were some people who thought this cemented his ‘best virgin ever’ position. There was some dissension. The absence of the FRB bag was noted.

We had to start drinking beer without our hare, because she was busy entertaining the walkers. (Hey Just Mike, take a camera next time. Not that anything camera-worthy happened, necessarily, but in my fevered imagination they did.) Yes, there did turn out to be beer, it just didn’t make it on trail. I believe the trail had a sad.

Eventually those non-running people showed up and we were able to determine that everyone did, indeed make it to the end (except for Malaysian chick, who was kinda hot, but I’m sure she’s not available and probably not subscribed to this mailing list.) Then we circled up right next to the running store, who evidently don’t mind people singing dirty songs to their customers. Ok, well, not TO their customers. But next to. Around. In the vicinity of. Betwixt. Still, no cop came. So either we weren’t loud enough or dirty enough. Or both. And then they came out to tell us they were closing up and if anyone needed to use the bathroom to go now. Nicest running store ever.

Speaking of singing. Stick it in my Socket is apparently a connoisseur of penis songs. She loves her some penis. Or at least singing about them. At the end, we were just making stuff up in order to hear more penis songs. Also, some of the male hashers have names for their penis. This was a revelation to some people. No, I won’t repeat any of the names here. If you wanted to know you would have made the hash.

Speaking of penises, at one point the Beer Bitch (sorry dude, I absolutely cannot remember your name; I blame solar flares) pointed out that a particular tree looked like a rabbit with a giant penis. This was absolutely true. I saw it right away. Then couldn’t unsee it. CP chimed in to let us know that in reality hares have tiny penises. I’ll be sure to let ATM and GAP (this coming Sunday’s hares) know that.

It seemed like EMC and I were the only ones who brought bottle-openers. I would make a joke about that, but I’m not sure it’s a joking matter. Some of you people’s priorities are really screwed up.

Oh, and guys, apparently many (some, at least) women don’t know about ‘The Man in the Boat’. Which seems somewhat incongruous at first, but when you think about it, it sort of makes sense. I bet Gaelick knows about the man in the boat, though. And then we had a discussion about licking the alphabet, but it was totally platonic and non-sexual and not creepy at all and Just Mike, I was not hitting on Just Sharon. I totally know she’s married. Totally. But she’s got a nice body. Just sayin’.

The on-after was supposed to be at Frazier’s, but when I showed up they wanted me to pay $10 to get in, because there was evidently a really loud (but shitty) band playing, and I asked for the Kilted Hasher discount but they wouldn’t give it to me, so instead I went home. Alone. Which is how I always end up going home, even though each Sunday I wake with my heart filled with hope. Kinda like how on trail I kept hoping that this was the last hill, but then Mattress kept popping up in my head, laughing, as I started the slow slog up the next one. So, if anything cool or interesting happened at the after, I don’t know about it.